


24 Live Another Day-Prequel

by nto24



Category: 24 (TV)
Genre: 24 live another day, Gen, Hurt Jack, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nto24/pseuds/nto24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been living in exile ever since that horrific day four years ago.<br/>The loneliness is excruciating but it's not like he has a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Traffic is light but the air outside his apartment is thick with diesel fumes from one street over where beat up sedans and trucks spew black exhaust day and night. It’s dusk so he only has to bow his head when headlights approach. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, he moves at an even pace, taking care to steer clear of any streetlights. His beard is thick-same as his glasses behind which his eyes are dark green, courtesy of contacts he still hasn't gotten used to

It’s crazy- you'd think he would have adjusted to them after all this time.

Just like you'd think he might have become less of a priority to certain organizations.

After all this time

_Guess again._

Apparently the CIA has a shortage of meaningful work to do.

He looks up and sees the familiar medicine bottle-shaped sign over the door of a shop coming up on his right. **Lily Apoteka,** the sign reads. Even though he’s hungry enough to be a little light headed he goes inside. _It's not like he has a choice._

Thankfully the Serbs are a lot less uptight about controlled substances and sell the codeine and acetaminophen tablets he needs over the counter at a cheap price.

It’s another thing he thought would have eased up over time.

Without Mercer’s cocktail of drugs his joint and muscle pain had come back with a vengeance just days after he fled New York.

But that had been four years ago.

_Kudos to the power of neurotoxins to mess you up for life._

There’s a new clerk behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with a friendly face who says something about rain on the way but he doesn't return her small talk. He pays her the 425 dinars she asks for, peeling off two hundreds and three tens and thanks her in Serbian when she hands him his change. Waving off her attempt to put the pills in a bag, he pockets them instead and hurries out. It kills him that he has to be so unfriendly but he wants very few people to see or hear him long enough to remember much.

It’s drizzling when he steps outside and he hunches against the wet and the cold. Thankfully Kafi Voz is just around the corner because he hasn’t eaten since late morning and a familiar queasy feeling is starting to wrap its fingers around his gut. Once inside he nods at the owner who offers him his choice of tables. He picks his usual one in the back near the kitchen so he can see who comes and goes and has a ready exit. Once he’s seated, a waitress comes to the table already carrying a Nisko beer and a basket of bread. Like the rest of the wait staff, she knows what he likes and doesn’t like. He thanks her when she sets down his beer and tells her he’ll have the pepper steak, tonight, medium rare. His Serbian is passable, definitely better than it was when he first started coming here but still clearly not his native language. Early on, she asked him where he was from. Now, like the others she barely speaks to him.

As soon as she walks away, getting something in his stomach is the first order of business. He’s grateful for how quickly a few bites of bread settle it. Next he shakes two tablets out of the bottle in his pocket and downs them with a long swig of beer. Feeling nearly human again, he pulls a newspaper out of his coat pocket and unfolds it. _Danas_ , the banner across the top reads. It’s Belgrade’s left leaning daily newspaper. At first it was hard for him to take anything formatted like The National Enquirer, seriously. The news is accurate though and the bias isn’t too glaring so it’s grown on him. As he scans the headlines the going is slow. Even though many of the Cyrillic letters are perfect imitators of the alphabet he’s far more comfortable with, they have an entirely different pronunciation. Throw in the other letters that are totally foreign looking and he has to concentrate hard just to read the headlines. A paperback or US paper would have been more enjoyable but he only reads Serbian publications when he’s out. Thankfully his dinner comes quickly.

Exactly an hour later he’s back in his apartment. Most nights he forces himself to take a walk after dinner but it’s Wednesday and he’s too anxious to do anything but get back. While he’s still taking off his coat he opens the kitchen drawer where he keeps a supply of burner phones and grabs one. As soon as he drops his coat on the couch he rips open the package and punches in a ten-digit code that will route his call through a special server Ricker still runs. He’ll have two untraceable minutes, guaranteed, two and a half if he wants to press his luck. He waits to hear a shrill beep and then dials Kim’s number. His fingers tremble. He sits down and checks his watch while he waits, knowing that at least the first two rings are bogus; that the call is still bouncing off satellites and between towers.

“Hello?”

Oh God. It’s the same every time he hears her voice; his heart is in his throat. “Hi honey, it’s me.”

“I thought it might be.”

She sounds happy; his shoulders relax a little.

“How are you Dad?”

“I’m…. good. I just got back from dinner.”

“Oh yeah? What did you have?”

“I…, I don’t remember. Steak, I think. It’s not important. Tell me how you are. Tell me about Teri, what’s she up to?”

“Oh my God, she’s amazing. I told you last week about this story writing kick she’s on, right? Well I swear she’s going to be a writer-this week she wrote one about a little girl who goes to New York city and finds her long lost dog. Oh and she illustrated it too. It totally blew me away.”

“Wow that’s terrific.”

“And she’s still swimming like a fish-she has a meet this weekend.”

“What’s she swimming?”

“Just freestyle-it’s her best stroke.”

“Tell her I hope she does well.”

“I will but I don’t think she really cares what her time is. She pretty much just goes along for the snacks they have after the meet.”

“Aw…, that reminds me of you when you played soccer.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… really,” he says while he blinks back traitorous tears.

“Are you okay Dad, your voice sounds a little funny.”

“I’m fine. It’s just the connection.“

“So are you… staying busy?”

“Yeah. Sure. I picked up a few new books at that bookstore I told you I found. And I’m trying to work out every day.”

“Did you see your friend Peter this week?”

“Yeah, last night as a matter of fact. We went for a few beers.”

A solitary tear makes its way down his cheek as he tells another lie about a person who doesn’t exist. “Next week we’re going… to a soccer game.”

“That sounds like fun, is it in Belgrade?”

Another tear rolls down his cheek. “Yeah. We’ll take the bus it’s only thirty minutes away. “

“Cool, I hope you have fun.”

There’s a long empty pause. Finally Kim breaks the silence.

“I miss you so much Dad.”

_Oh God. Don’t._

“I miss you too, baby. I… I think of you and Teri all the time.”

“Is there any way… any way at all we can see you? What are you hearing about the CIA?”

“Same as I’ve been hearing all along; they’re still actively working to bring me in.”

“But it’s been four years; they have to have more important things to focus on. I was thinking Stephen and I could take Teri on a vacation someplace in Europe and you could meet us?”

“No!”

All of a sudden his heart is pounding in his chest.

“They would have you under even tighter surveillance over here.”

“Oh Dad.”

He hears her swallow hard and does the same thing. He can almost see her lip trembling; his arms ache to be around her.

“Well just so you know,” she says in a shaky voice, “every day, at least a hundred times a day, I think of you and miss you.”

It feels like his throat is being ripped open; the ache is that bad.

“Same here…. baby. I’m so sorry that I-“

“No, Dad! Stop. I’ve told you, before. You have nothing to be sorry for. You only did what you thought was right.”

“Thank you.”

He’s suddenly so exhausted it takes all he has to choke out, “I… I love you, KIm.”

“I love you too."

"Baby we have to wrap this up."

"Are we out of time?”

“Nearly. Give Teri… a kiss for me, okay?”

“I will and you take care of yourself.”

“I will. Bye for now, honey.”

As soon as he hangs up, the storm crashes down on him. It’s the same every week. Ugly violent sobs rack his shoulders and an anguished keening sound rips its way out of his throat. Cradling his face in his hands he gives into it; he has no choice. He sobs for all he’s lost and will never get back. He sobs because he’s so incredibly lonely and it’s always going to be this way. Tonight is worse than usual- it’s a long time before he stands up and goes into the bathroom for a tissue.

When he looks at his bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked face in the mirror he grimaces and has to fight back more tears.

It’s no use.

He grips the sink to ride out another wave of sobs.

When it’s this bad-when he hurts this much he wonders why he should go on. The gun under his mattress calls to him; the thought of ending his pain is so sweet he has to wrap his arms around himself and say “No,” out loud.

_No._

_He can’t._

_Kim would be devastated._

 _______~_______

_Later that night…_

He rolls over and spoons up against her warm body. The swell of her bottom against him makes him sigh in his sleep and then a second later makes sleep impossible.

Suddenly the night’s pain is vanquished. He tilts his hips; pressing against her while he very gently lays his hand on her hip and savors the feel of her soft, smooth skin. Should he let her sleep?

There’s no way he can.

His hand sets off on a slow luxurious search for her breast. He inhales sharply when he arrives, cupping her lovingly and scooting even closer so he can press his lips against her neck and drink in her familiar scent. He can’t help but moan as he kisses her.

“Ja…ck, “ she says sleepily. And then sounding a little more awake, “Jack.”

He knows she won’t chastise him or muzzily tell him to go back to sleep. Her body is totally in sync with his; his arousal almost always triggers an identical response in her. “Well hello there, “ she murmurs, stretching and pressing back against him.

“I’m sorry… I woke up.”

“Hmm, something definitely feels wide awake back there.”

“Come’ere you.”

She goes limp and lets him pull her over on her back. Her soft moan tells him she’s catching up fast.

“God, look at you,” he says.

It’s the same every time. The sight of her naked body completely blows him away. Pushing the bed-covers away, he straddles her with his knees.

“Look at you,” she purrs back and reaches for him.  

He inhales raggedly as she starts to stroke him.

_So good._

Suddenly  a siren shatters the quiet.

It’s just an ordinary night noise but suddenly he’s awake and shivering and confused. His blanket and sheet are nowhere to be seen. He’s lying on his stomach with his arms wrapped around a pillow and underneath him the bed feels damp. “No. Oh God, No,” he chokes out.

It happened again.

His mind and body betrayed him. Hot tears spill down his cheeks as he stumbles toward the bathroom. He thinks about the gun under his mattress. He wants to feel its heft in his hand so badly it frightens him. He forces himself to turn on the shower. He can’t go back in that room yet.

He just can’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living in exile is hell.  
> When Jack gets word that someone wants to see him hell takes on a whole new meaning.

Chapter Two  
  
It’s a little before eight and the night is already bone chillingly cold.  
  
He'd forced himself to take a long walk after dinner; the apartment was starting to feel like it was closing in on him.  
  
 _Again_.  
  
When he makes it back to the three story building he's lived in for four years he's winded. By the time he makes it up two stories to his door his legs feel like rubber. Pissed at himself for being so damn soft he digs in his pocket for his key.  
  
Something by his foot catches his eye.  
  
Grunting, he bends down and picks up a cheap black and white flyer.  
  
 **Barajevo Moto Park !**  
  
His pulse quickens as he scans the rest of the ad; there are plenty of pictures of shiny used cars but no address-no phone number. Barajevo. It's the name of a little town a few kilometers to the west. A name that makes his chest tighten when he sees it.  
  
He glances down the hallway to confirm what he's already guessed.  
  
No other apartment door has a flyer in front of it.  
  
So Meade wants face time?.  
  
Shit.  
  
Six months ago it was a flyer for **Pekare Barajevo.** Complete with stock photos of pastries and loaves of bread the flyer looked legit but he knew better. When he got to Meade's place, after way too much foreplay he'd finally been handed a package from Ricker. He's not expecting anything from anyone right now and trekking to Meade's country house is about the last thing he wants to do. Getting there will take nearly three hours, double that to get back. The trip will leave him wiped out for at least a day afterward.  
  
Not that it matters.  
  
He has no choice.  
  
Stuffing the flyer into his pocket he lets himself in the apartment and heads for the kitchen. No way can he make the trip tonight-the buses stop running at ten. He's not sure when he took his last Vicodin but he doesn’t care. As he chases two of the oblong white tablets down with a glass of lukewarm water he thinks about his upcoming command performance and decides ten in the morning is early enough. It means getting up at six so he takes another bottle out of the cabinet and shakes a familiar blue tablet out on his palm.  
  
 _Hello sweet dreams._  
  
In his room a minute later he digs some cold weather gear out of the back of his closet and tosses it on the floor next to his bed. After he pulls a clean pair of jeans and and  long sleeve t shirt out of his dresser he strips down to his briefs and pads down the hallway to brush his teeth and pee. On his way back to his bedroom he wonders what the hell Meade wants.  
  
 _Don’t think about it; just get some sleep._  
  
Thankfully this time his head cooperates. At first it's because he's just slid into a bed that's so damn cold there's no way to think of anything-at all. Once he finally begins to warm up he takes intentionally slow, deep breaths. Eyes closed he focuses on the rise and fall of his chest and the sensation as air enters his nose and moves down into his lungs. When a random thought tries to surface he jettisons it immediately. The last thing he hears before he drifts off is the distant sound of a siren.  
  
 _Four years ago…_  
  
“He’s not all that likeable, Jack but trust me, he’s the real deal. Anything you need, anything at all-Meade can fix you up.”  
  
There had been no time to ask for details. He’d taken Meade’s contact information and stuffed it in his pocket without a word.  
  
“Your ride’s pulling up,” Ricker announced eying the feed from one of his surveillance cameras. “Here, take this” he said, coming around from behind his cluttered workbench. “There’s stuff in here to change your pretty boy looks-be sure to do it before you get out in Baltimore. I threw in some clothes and other things you might need too-take all the antibiotics-that hole in your chest looks like crap.”  
  
“Thanks” he had said taking the duffel bag but not looking up..  
  
Telling Chloe good-bye yesterday had torn him up. No way did he want a repeat.  
  
He waited while Ricker unlocked the steel basement door. Watching his friend's burly hands work the deadbolt he thought how strange it was-this was the last he'd see his friend.

  
Ever.  
  
When the door opened he gave Ricker a silent nod and stepped out into brisk morning.  
  
No use going there.  
  
The door closed behind him with a resounding thud. A white paneled van, its engine running, waited a few yards away. In the distance a siren wailed. Nearer by, a driver, who had to be in a taxi gave his horn a serious workout. Typical sounds for a Manhattan morning, traitorously, before he could deflect it, landed a direct hit leveled him.  
  
It was the last time he'd hear the city's noisy wake up call.  
  
Bracing his side he climbed into a waiting paneled van. There was a filthy rug on the floor-as soon as the door slid shut he dropped down on it.  
  
Not a good idea.  
  
Lying on his side hurt like hell; rolling over on his back was no better.  
  
When he wedged his duffle bag against the wall of the van and hitched himself up against it things improved. Eyes closed he felt the ride turn smoother. They must have pulled on to the Interstate.  
  
Sleep, he told himself. Just sleep.  
  
His mind and body had other ideas. It took until the Jersey Turnpike for exhaustion to win out over grief and pain. Two more tolls and an accident ten miles outside of Wilmington passed him by completely. It wasn’t until the van came to a stop at the harbor in Baltimore that he woke up.  
  
Reentry wasn’t easy.His head was pounding.  
  
Sitting up, fighting back the bile in his throat he started to dig through his duffel bag. When he found what he was looking for he couldn’t help but smile.  
  
Ricker always did have a sense of humor.  
  
Gritting his teeth, he pulled on a brown wig with a stringy ponytail. Thick black glasses and a battered baseball cap came next. A camouflage-print army jacket rounded out the ensemble.  
  
He couldn’t see himself but he knew it was true.  
  
Jack Bauer was disappearing.  
  
“Yours is the second one down, over there-” the driver told him when he slid the van's door open. “Gangway should be lowered, captain’s name is Mikovich. He’s expecting you. Just give him this.”  
  
Jack pocketed the thick envelope the man gave him and hefted his duffel bag over his shoulder. Enormous freighters on either side of him totally blocked out the sun as he made his way down the concrete quay. It was as if night had instantly descended. Huddling against the sudden, chilly darkness. It was a surreal setting for his last steps in his own country.  
  
As soon as he thought it he did the mental equivalent of a force quit and picked up his pace which meant he was breathing hard when he started to climb the gangway of one of the freighters. There was no one on deck so he ducked inside the first open bulkhead.  
  
The stench of diesel fuel and stale food hit him right away.  
  
His stomach lurched as looked around for a crewman.  
  
Suddenly two men were coming toward him. He could smell their ripeness before they got within ten feet of him. Their odor was bad enough that he started breathing through his mouth. Thankfully their captain must have given them a heads up because they nodded at him and without a word led him to the pilothouse. Introductions and handshakes were tersely exchanged. As soon as Mikovich took the envelope from him he told one of the deckhands to show ‘their guest’ to his quarters.  
  
Guest? He pitied anyone of lesser standing.  
  
The windowless cabin was more of a closet than a room. There was a cot on one wall and a locker on the other. A putrid smelling bathroom was pointed out to him on the way. As he left the deckhand announced in a comical blend of English and Belarusian that meals would be brought to the room-that he was not to leave the cabin except to use the toilet.  
  
Not to worry, he thought to himself as the door closed and he dropped down on his cot.  
  
_____~______  
  
The trip took five days. He stayed in his bunk except to use the bathroom or eat whatever he could force down from the trays delivered to him. For most of the trip he shivered under two ratty army blankets and then on the fifth day when they steamed into the Bay of Gibraltar the stale air in his cabin suddenly turned sweltering and he sweated through his already rank shirt. Late that day they docked in Algeciras, Spain's maritime hidden treasure. It might be the third largest transshipment port in Europe but few people thought of it as a major point of entry onto the continent which is exactly why Ricker chose a freighter headed there. It was Friday, late in the afternoon when they docked but it wasn’t until Saturday night that Mikovich sent a crewman to tell him it was safe to leave the ship.  
  
He found a cheap hotel in a rundown neighborhood a few blocks from the water and in flawless German and purposefully halting Spanish managed to arrange to have his clothes laundered.While he waited for them he sat on his bed in just his briefs and studied a train schedule. It would take two full days of train connections to reach Belgrade and then he'd need to take a local bus to get to Meade's place.  
  
Three days total?  
  
What did it matter? All he had was time.  
  
Early Sunday morning before the owner came down to the front desk he dropped off his key and started walking to the train station. The dull throb in his chest reminded him of Ricker's warning and he stopped at a newsstand for a bottle of water to wash down another penicillin tablet. The stuff played havoc with his stomach so he grabbed a package of crackers and forced them down before he got to the station. Grateful for the aged building's coolness, he wiped sweat off his forehead and upper lip. It wasn't that he was feverish-it was the damn wig and army jacket. He bought another bottle a water and an orange before he went down to the track level to board.  
  
He was walking toward his train when out of no where he thought-why bother?  
  
There was a handgun in his duffel. He could be at the waterfront in ten minutes. The water was deep enough for freighters; if he weighted himself down before he pulled the trigger his body would never be found.  
  
A young mother holding on to her daughter's hand suddenly rushed past him  
  
 _What about Kim?_  
  
Just thinking of her-of her and Teri -stopped him cold. Other travelers pushed past him; he couldn't move. He slumped down on a bench-paralyzed.  
  
Ricker had promised there would be a way to stay in touch with her. It wouldn't be near as often as he'd like to but it would be totally below the radar. Meade would give him the details.  
  
He stood up. His duffel bag felt like dead weight on his shoulder; his legs barely cooperated when he started toward his train.  
  
Ricker was smart-maybe the smartest man he knew. Trust him to plant a perfect kill switch in his head; no way could he do anything but keep going.  
  
_____~_____  
  
Alex Meade was no ordinary citizen. He was ex-CIA and, thanks to a monumental fuck up, things had ended very badly between himself and the agency, so badly, in fact, that in order to stay alive, he had to disappear and totally reinvent himself. Just like Jack would be, he was exiled from his family and every single person he cared about. Unlike Jack, Meade wanted to get back at the ass holes who had exiled him so he ran an underground railroad of sorts for poor bastards just like himself.  
  
With a loud churning of gears the bus finally reached its last stop and Jack got off. February in Serbia wasn’t just cold. It was cold and damp and some days, like today, there was a stiff wind that went right through you. He took a long, circuitous route, first disappearing into the woods behind the bus stop and then heading north toward the river. Finally, with his feet aching from the cold he turned eastward. After he cleared a low stonewall, he approached a two-story mansion from the rear. As he neared it he replayed the last part of the instructions Ricker had given him in his head.  
  
Go to the backdoor. Enter the numbers 5674 into the keypad next to the door and wait.  
  
He punched in the numbers and waited. His chest hurt; his gut was trying to keep up with it. The funny thing was neither of them could compete.  
  
There was hurt and then there was hurt.  
  
The empty aching feeling deep down inside him had it all over anything his body could dish out.  
  
It was as intense as it was relentless.  
  
It was like the ache after he lost Teri and almost Kim.  
  
Only worse.  
  
______~______  
  
 _The next day...present time._  
  
“Nice to see you again, Jack. Did you have a good trip?”  
  
“Yeah it was great but how about we skip the small talk and you tell me why you made me come out here?”  
  
“I see you you’re as happy go lucky as ever.”  
  
“Come on, Meade. When I leave here I’ve got a two hour trek ahead of me before I even reach the bus that will take an hour to get me back to the hovel I call home.”  
  
“Whoa slow down there pal. Why head back right away? Why not give yourself a break from that dreary little town of yours and stay the night? You can have a nice hot shower, maybe a sauna and then have dinner with me. I've got New York Strip steaks and some of the best Cabernet you'll ever taste. How about it?”  
  
“Thanks but no thanks. Just tell me why you dragged me out here and I’ll be on my way.”  
  
“As you like. Come with me.”  
  
Meade led Jack through the kitchen and down a hallway. He stopped at a heavily reinforced door and pressed his thumb against the security pad next to it. When the solid red light on the pad turned green, he twisted the door’s handle and as he opened it, nodded for Jack to go in ahead of him.  
  
“No. After you.”  
  
There was no mistaking that Jack meant it so Meade stepped past him and headed down the steep staircase.  
  
The room they enter seconds later is 360' different from the rustic casualness of the rest of the house. A low hum and cool breeze greet them. The environment is being carefully managed to agree with the servers against the far wall. There are flickering monitors everywhere.  
  
It feels like a lot of rooms Jack’s been in before.  
  
He doesn’t like rooms like this. He never has. “Okay fine so you’ve got an impressive collection of toys,” he says to Meade. “What is it, specifically you wanted to show me?”  
  
“Over here,” Meade says, sitting down behind a monitor.  
  
Jack’s jaw is clenched when he pulls a chair up beside Meade. As much as he doesn't want to be here, he has no choice.  
  
At first the information flashing across the screen in front of him is ho hum.  
  
There’s always suspicious chatter out there.  
  
He’s learned to dissect and discount 99% of it.  
  
Then he sees a tag that makes his gut clench.  
  
Ibrahim Basari.  
  
“Wait- go back, “ he says to Meade. “What was that?”  
  
Like the proverbial cat with his doomed canary Meade smiles. “So I see you noticed the same thing I noticed.”  
  
“Show me all the traffic you’ve intercepted on him.”  
  
“Gladly.”  
  
It’s a little after noon.  
  
It’s March the 7th.  
  
Jack will remember the day forever.  
  
The screen he and Meade are staring at lights up with hits.  
  
After Jack scans them Meade pulls up a file on another monitor and opens it. “And here's the piece de resistance ,” he says grimly.  
  
As Jack reads what's on the screen his jaw drops. The folder contains a collection of intercepted emails. Emails that have been encrypted and re-encrypted. Fortunately or unfortunately, there’s not much encryption that Meade can’t crack.  
  
“Holy fuck,” Jack says. His shoulders slump.  
  
“Pretty much my exact thoughts.”  
  
“Who have you shown this to?”  
  
“Just you.”  
  
Jack rears back, angry and incredulous. “Are you crazy? Why haven’t you taken this to M6 or back-door ed it to your ex pals at Langley?”  
  
Chuckling like an tolerant parent Meade says, “I think you know the answer as well as I do. Our pals on either side of the pond are utterly incapable of dealing with a threat like this one.  
  
“So you show it to me? What the hell do you expect me to do? Wait a minute, why do you even care about this?”  
  
“Whoa-slow down there, my friend. Much as I hate the way my country has treated me, I can’t bring myself to stand by and watch something this monumentally wrong go down. As far as what I expect you to do?” Meade locks eyes with Jack. “I expect you to do what you’ve always done.”  
  
“And what exactly is that?”  
  
“The right thing.”


End file.
